


Life is Only Interesting if Life is Wide

by imbouncingoffthewalls



Category: Kill Your Darlings (2013), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Feels, M/M, So much angst, Spoilers, the ending is different from the movie just fyi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1275043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbouncingoffthewalls/pseuds/imbouncingoffthewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Some things, once you’ve loved them, become yours forever. Then if you try to let them go, they only circle back and return to you, they become a part of who you are, or they destroy you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

" _American daylight bombers were busy again, as our liberators with fighter escort continue the air offensive with another sock at German coastal installations in France."_

The voice of a radio announcer sounded in the home as Peter Parker roamed his house with a broom. Oh, hell. The  _war._ Peter, if he was being thoroughly honest with himself, was rather sick of it. He had enough to deal with in his own home--- the last thing his family needed was a war, let alone a  _world war._ There was a war within the home as it was. For the time being, all was quiet. It wouldn't last.

The report soon ended, only to be turned into a lively tune that could definitely be danced to.  _Perfect._ Peter took the broom in his hand, deciding that he could pretend, if only just this once, that he could actually dance. Peter twirled around the room with broom in hand, using it as the best of dance partners. The broom didn't judge him for his lack of coordination and grace. Perfect. The dancing, much to the dismay of the broom, was soon brought to an abrupt halt when Peter's father, famous poet Richard Parker, returned home.   
  
 _"_ How was she today?" the man asked, the sound of a forgotten dance partner being accidentally dropped to the ground echoing somewhere in the room. Richard turned the radio off as Peter leaned against a table, running a hand nervously through his hair. His eyes were fixed on the bundle of mail in his father's hands. 

"O-Oh, she was fine," Peter mumbled, eyes still locked on the letters. His father noticed where his attention was, and an eyebrow raised in mild confusion.

"Are you expecting something?" he asked, waving the mail just a little in his hand.

Peter glanced down at the ground just as soon as the question was asked, feet shuffling in nervousness. He shook his head, a soft no tumbling from his lips. A clear lie, if any had ever been told. Peter never had been any good at lying.

Just before his father could challenge him, the sound of a woman's cry of pain mingled with the sound of shattering glass echoed in the home. Peter sighed, eyes immediately darting up.   
  
"Told you it wouldn't work," Richard mumbled, arms folded loosely over his chest. Without a word, Peter ran upstairs to check on his mother.

Mother had... a few problems. She believed Richard, her husband, was out to get her. She was the only one. 

"Mom? Mom!" Peter called out, running into her bedroom. His mother May was crouched down in a corner next to a window, the crimson red of her blood shining in the light.  _Not again._

"He n-nailed the window shut while I was in the bath," she murmured, a dazed and disorientated look in her eyes as clear as day. Peter immediately went to her side, crouching down next to her. This was his life; this was what he did best. He helped his mother through these delusional fits. She only trusted him. It had always been that way, ever since Peter could remember. His mom would work herself up over nothing, and his father couldn't calm her. It wasn't the sort of situation a child should have had to deal with, but it had always been Peter's job to fix.

"No, I did. You're not okay, mom. C'mon, gimme your hand," Peter spoke softly, eyes always fixed just above her eyes so as not to intimidate her. Peter took his mother's injured hand as gently as he could, wrapping it with a washcloth. All the while, Mary brought her good hand to her lips, hushing Peter.   
  
"Peter! He can  _hear you,"_ the woman spoke in hushed tones, eyes darting all around the room as if searching for something.

"Mom, you need to get your rest. Clear your mind. You don't... you don't wanna go back to  _that place,_ do you?" Peter asked, eyes meeting his mother's for only the briefest of moments before they went back to their usual spot.   
  
"He wouldn't  _dare_ send me back," Mary whispered, shaking her head fervently. 

"Then,  _please,_ Mom. Listen to me, okay?" 

She shushed him again, eyes still wide and unfocused. " _He can hear you!"_

Peter sighed, realizing that he was hardly getting anywhere with his current plan of action. A sudden idea came to mind, and he quickly stood. He found one of his mother's records and put it on, turning the volume up as high as it would go. "Can he still hear?" he asked, turning to face his mother.   
  
"What?" she asked, raising her voice slightly.   
  
Peter covered his ears, then pointed downstairs to where his father was.  Understanding, Mary visibly relaxed. Peter reached for her hands, pulling his mother into a waltz. She clung to him as if he were her only chance at survival. Just the way it had always been. 

"Never leave me," she whispered, resting her head on Peter's shoulder.   
  
Richard was watching from the doorway, a melancholy look set on his face.

 

 

 

"When were you gonna tell me you applied?"

 

Peter had been sitting on the front porch, attempting to clear his mind. His mother had finally calmed. All was well, for at least the night--- until his dad came out with an open letter in his hand. That would be a problem.

The letter was from Columbia University. Peter had applied; he never told his parents because he  _couldn't._ He couldn't let his mother know he was leaving, because what would  _that_ do to her mind? He couldn't tell his father he was leaving, because what would  _that_ to do his spirits? They would both end up feeling insanely alone, and Peter just couldn't put them through that unless he was certain he would be leaving.

Peter cast his eyes down, clear guilt written all over his features. "I-I didn't want her to know. Besides, it was just... just a dream. It's nothing."

"They've got English professors---important people. Not to mention New York City'll be right in your lap." His father sits down on the porch right beside him, a lit cigarette in hand. 

" _Love that is hoarded, molds at last."_ Richard was reciting his own poetry. Odd, but Peter would go with it. " _Until we know, the only thing we have..."_

" _Is what we give away."_ Peter finished the recitation, glancing at his father. 

"Is what we  _hand_ away.  Have, hand. Consonance." Richard corrected, the faintest hints of a grin on his lips.

"Give, is.  _Assonance."_  Peter retorted, a grin just beginning to form on his own face.

Richard playfully nudged Peter's shoulder with his own, laughing softly. "I wrote the damn thing. Go write your own."

The words sound just a little forced, and maybe there's a bit of moisture in his eyes. He hands his son the letter.

"--- _I got in,"_ Peter's gaze is locked on the letter, a look of clear astonishment in wide eyes.

"You got in?" He's proud of his son, but getting in means going away. How will he handle Mary without him? He won't be the one to hold his son back. Peter was such a good kid. So talented. He deserved better. 

"I got into Columbia University!" Peter's too excited about being  _accepted_ to think about anything else just yet; to think about just what that means. It's incredible. Never in his wildest fantasies did Peter think he could possibly be good enough for Columbia University. It was incredible. He was accepted! It was everything he had ever wanted. He was  _accepted._


	2. two more sentences.

It was everything he could have ever imagined. The campus was, of course, absolutely stunning. Peter had only been there for a few hours and already he could tell that this would be very different from the home he had left behind. It was alive and buzzing in a quiet, calm sort of way. Perfect. 

After roaming the campus for an hour or so, taking in the sights, Peter found himself in his dormitory. Posters for the war, and for various sports, already adorned the walls. Clearly, Peter had a roommate. The other student was not yet to be seen, which was perfectly fine by Peter. The few moments alone gave him time to adjust to this new environment. After growing up an only child, having a roommate would prove to be an experience that demanded a bit of getting used to. Not that it was really a problem. Peter was fond of first experiences, after all. First experiences meant something different, and  _oh,_ how he longed for different. 

After carefully setting his bag down on a bed that he assumed to be vacant, Peter wandered around the room. His eyes settled on a map of the New York subway systems. A few steps closer to the map allowed for a bit of closer inspection. Peter peered at the lines of various colors through his glasses as a single finger slowly began to trace out the lines that seemed to completely dominate the majority of the paper. 

"You don't wanna go down there." 

The sudden sound of an unfamiliar voice made Peter jump just slightly, a startled gasp spilling from his mouth. It caused the unidentified man to chuckle, taking a step closer to both Peter and the map to further explain. 

"It's the land of the fairies," the man went on to explain. "Go there and ya never come back." A friendly smile followed the words, and a hand was extended in Peter's direction. "Clint Barton. Waverly, Iowa."

Peter offered a weak smile and an even weaker handshake. Meeting new people had never been his strong point. He was rather shy and often spoke with a stutter upon first meeting someone. "P-Peter Parker." 

 

 

Just an hour or so later, Peter found himself on a tour with a large handful of other incoming freshmen. The tour had been informative,quiet, and just what he expected from Columbia. It was, as he had already thought numerous times,  _perfect._ A perfect environment for the quiet boy. From what he had been able to gather, the people seemed to be just his crowd. Intelligent, but not too stuffy; they knew how to have fun without partying themselves into oblivion. Perfect. 

Their tour guide, with a perfetly ironed sweater and immaculately styled hair, led the group into the famed South Hall library. Peter had always dreamed of stepping foot in the library, and now.  _Now,_ his dreams were coming true. 

"The South Hall library is a church and...  _these_ are the sacraments." the guide delivered what was obviously a well-practiced line as he motioned to a glass case that looked as if it belonged in a museum. 

"Original folios of the most important text in history." the tour guide went on to brag in what was clearly meant to be a subtle way about all of the amazing works the library hosted. If it hadn't been as impressive as it was, Peter may have been inclined to laugh. Who could laugh, though, when looking at  _William Shakespeare's handwriting?_ Certainly not Peter. 

"Let's hear a bit, shall we?" 

Peter glanced up and around at the voice that simply  _demanded_ his attention. A boy was climbing onto a table with the sort of confidence that made people want to watch. Clearly, he was used to attention; perhaps even thrived on it as most boys as handsome as he often did. Peter found his mind repeating the word  _beautiful_ over and over, as if it were a broken record instead of a brain. 

" _On a Sunday afternoon, when the proletariat possesses the street..."_

Many in the library looked incredibly confused. Peter could imagine that this was not an everyday happening.

"... _there are certain thoroughfares that remind one of...."_ _  
_

The boy sank to his knees in a flash of red---Peter only then realized that the boy was wearing a red cravat--- and pulled a lamp straight in between his legs.

" _...a big, cancerous_   **cock.** "

It leaves many in shock, Peter included. A few female students in the room blush with faint arousal, which makes Peter blush in turn. A furious looking librarian immediately stomped over to the boy upon the end of his little performance.

"What was that... that  _nonsense?"_

The boy smirked, arms folded. "Henry Miller,"   
  
Aka,  _very restricted._ Peter could tell that the boy was all too proud of himself for defying the authority, even in this small way. It was understandable, although not exactly the type of cause Peter could relate to.

"That book is  _restricted._ Get down from there this instant." 

That, of course, only made the student chuckle. He did n't budge. "Which is why I memorized it," he drawled.

It almost made Peter laugh. Before any such thing could take place, however, the librarian was calling for security. Two large men rushed in from god knows where, and the boy was up and  _right in front of Peter._

"Alert the press! Tell them all that Harry Osborn is  _innocent!"_ With that,  _Harry_ ran straight out of the library. He left a trail of  _melodious_ laughter.

The second Harry had exited, the tour guide attempted to recover from the situation.

"Th-That was very unusual. You'll find that our campus is usually very quiet. Now, moving on--"

Peter could only grin to himself in sheer amusement. Who the hell was Harry Osborn?

 

" _The Victorian sonnet has the balance of three tenets."_

The next day brought classes, which excited Peter right out of his mind. How he had waited for this day, and how amazing it was! He could barely take down his notes fast enough. He was terribly eager to soak up all of the knowledge he could. What else was he there to do, after all? He  _needed_ to take in all that he could.

" _Rhyme, meter, conceit."_ the Professor went on. " _Without the balance, a poem becomes slack, sloppy. An un-tucked shirt."_

Well, that couldn't be completely true. Peter raised his hand, clearing his throat nervously.   
  
"I--- how then, Professor Fury, does one explain Walt Whitman?"

The question brought about a chorus of murmurs from around the class. Challenging Professor Fury was not a common practice. Still, the man looked interested. He leaned forward just slightly, one eyebrow raised.

"Two sentences more." 

Peter glanced down briefly, then back up at the man. He really wasn't the biggest fan of speaking in front of many people. " _He hated rhyme and meter._ T-The whole point was to un-tuck your shirt."

A small grin lit up the Professor's face. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Peter Parker, sir." 

Professor Fury nodded in recognition. "Parker... Are you then, perhaps, the son of poet Richard Parker?"

Peter nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Well, Mr. Parker. Your father writes with rhyme and meter. Why do you think that is?"

Peter immediately said the first thing that came to mind. "Because it's easier."

The retort earns him another round of murmurs and chuckles from the students in the room.

"This university was founded on tradition and form. Would you rather the building be built by engineers, or Whitman?"  
  


Peter could recognize when he was trapped. Hanging his head in defeat, Peter nodded. How could he answer? With a satisfied smirk, the Professor turned to continue his lecture.

 

 

  
From the back of the classroom, Harry Osborn smirked at the back of Peter Parker's head. Interesting boy.


	3. an oasis in this wasteland

It wasn't that Peter  _wanted_ to be the typical freshamn that worked too hard and took school a little too seriously. It was just that, if he was being honest with himself, he  _was_ the typical freshman that worked too hard and took school a little too seriously. He was slumped over his desk when Clint entered the room, a warm smile fixed on his face. Peter had only known the man for a day or so, and yet he could already tell that he was the sort of guy that just always seemed to have a smile on his face.

"Pete, close the books. We're taking my brother out to the social tonight. He's shipping out tomorrow." 

Peter offered up an apologetic smile and a small shrug of his shoulders. He really did have a bit of work to do. He wasn't the type of person that would just abandon his work for the sake of a party. "I can't. You see how much work I have to do."

Clint sat on his bed, gazing at Peter from across the room. "C'mon, Parker. He's in the _Navy._ It's like catnip to the girls." 

Even the promise of a handful of loose women would not be enough to shake Peter. He had work to do, and he was determined to get it done, party or no party. Peter shook his head once, causing Clint to groan. 

"Suit yourself. You really are all about work, aren't you?" With that, the man left Peter alone---with the sounds of a familiar record wafting in from another room. It brought him back to his home, back to waltzes with his mother. It pulled him out of his chair and away from his desk; away from his work. Peter found himself drifting out of his own room and off in search of the melody he knew so well. The music led him to an open door that he didn't think twice about entering. 

The room was lit by candles, and there was a lack of any real furniture. A mattress rested on the ground, acting as a sort of table for the phonograph that played the music he had come in search of. Books practically lined the walls. Smoke filled the air, giving the room a mysteriously sexy sort of appearance. Intriguing. 

"...Brahms?"

A boy with blonde hair turned in surprise---of course, it would be the same boy from the library. What had his name been?  _Harry Osborn._ The initial look of surprise quickly melted into a smirk. The source of the smoke hung out from between the boys lips. It was pulled away lazily by two nimble fingers. 

" _Finally,"_ Harry drawled. "An oasis in this wasteland."

Peter ran a hand through his hair, an old nervous habit. "W-Why aren't you out at the, ah... at the social?"

The question earned Peter a chuckle and a playful eyeroll. "Don't you know? Only the most anti-social people go to events  _called_ socials. Care for a drink?" Harry asked, standing.

That certainly wasn't allowed. Peter's mouth hung open for the briefest of moments before he thought better of saying so. "Y-You drink in your room?" Peter asked, astonishment  clearly mixing with his words. 

Another chuckle was granted. This guy really was innocent, wasn't he? Like a lump of clay, it was clear that he had potential. Lots and lots of easy to mold potential.

"What about a  _horrible_ bottle of Chianti?" Harry offered, raising the bottle.

Peter shook his head slowly. "I-I don't drink."

A nearly  predatory light illuminated Harry's eyes at the statement, and his smirk on his face only managed to grow. "Freshman, I take it?"

Peter gave a weak nod in response, mouth suddenly very dry. Regardless of what Peter claimed he didn't drink, Harry handed over a glass.

" _Excellent._ I love first times. I want my whole life to be composed of them. Life is only interesting if life..." He locked eyes with Peter. "...is  _wide."_

Harry rose his glass in toast. "To Walt Whitman," Peter was sure he winked. " _Oh, you dirty bastard."_

Harry knocked back the entirety of his glass, eyes still locked on Peter's.  "How are your Yeats? Familiar with  _A Vision,_ yes?"

Peter shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

Harry spun around, scanning the room in search of the book in question. "It's brilliant and impossible. Says that life is round. We're all stuck on this wheel, all spinning; dying and living." Harry spoke with conviction. He was the type of guy that managed to make his audience, no matter how large or small, hang off of his every word. 

"An endless circle... until someone breaks it.  _You,"_ he gestured towards Peter briefly with his glass, "came in here and you disrupted the pattern.  _Bang:_ the whole world..."

" ** _Get's wider."_** They spoke in perfect unison. Harry's eyes lit with amusement. 

"How did you know that?" he asked, taking a step closer to Peter. 

"It-it's consonance. Reiteration of a theme." Peter replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Harry circled Peter like a shark going after its prey. "Are you a writer? I have a job for a writer,"

Not yet, not really. Peter shook his head. "No."  
  
"Of course you're not. You're not anything  _yet,"_ It sounded of promise. He may not have been anything just yet, but Harry would change that. Clay, after all, needed to be molded.

Harry was stepping closer and closer. Peter's breath was picking up in speed. Before another word could be said, Peter's name was being called from down the hall.

"Isn't that you?" Harry asked, smirk right back on his face. Peter hadn't even noticed.

"Oh-- what is it?" Peter called over his shoulder, clearly a tad bit annoyed at the disturbance.

"There's a call for you," the voice replied. Peter groaned softly, glancing down. He returned his gaze to Harry's smirking face. 

"I'll be right back." Peter dashed out of the room, going to the phone.

"Hello?"

" _I found the wires."_ Mother. Oh, no. Now was certainly not the time for his mother's delusions.

"Mom---Put dad on the phone." Peter sighed into the telephone, leaning against a wall. He was gone and moved out. Shouldn't that mean the end of such problems? Was this still his responsibility? Would it always be this way?

"He's not home. Peter, I need you to come home."

"I  _can't_ come home, mom. I need you to start looking after yourself."

" _I don't feel good."_

Just then, Harry emerged, pulling on a coat. Peter pulled the phone away from his mouth. "Going to the social?" he asked.

Harry shook his head. "No, no. Downtown."

"Is he there with you?" Mary asked through the phone, panic in her voice. Peter sighed.

"No, he isn't. Look, I promise, I'll be there as soon as I can, alright?" Harry was waving goodbye, and walking down the stairs.

"Promise?"

"Yes, mom, I promise. I love you, okay? Bye."   
  


And suddenly, Peter was off and chasing after Harry. It was a sound that Harry enjoyed, the pitter patter of Peter's feet. It was like hearing a puppy running after it's owner. How cute.

" _Coming_?" the blonde drawled, turning his head to glance at Peter.

 


	4. welcome to the edge of the world

Peter soon found himself being dragged off with Harry leading the way. Peter was good at being led, at being molded and conformed. He was good at taking instruction, and Harry was good at giving it. The world was filled with natural born leaders just as it was filled with those meant to follow. There were people, like Harry, that would always dominate every situation they walked into. They were the people that oozed such a strong confidence that everyone else was left to simply submit and listen. There were people, like Peter, that would always gravitate towards such strong personalities. They were the people that clung to such demanding presences, craving guidance---- that was, at least, the way Peter saw it.

Harry? Harry just saw a puppy with pretty glasses following his new master----

\---straight into Greenwich Village.

"Welcome to the edge of the world."

The party was the literal embodiment of pure and complete _chaos._ There were various scattered couples engaged in heavy make-out sessions all over the room. Old women were smoking with boys that looked barely legal hanging all over them. It was like nothing Peter had ever been exposed to. The last party he had attended was his best friend's tenth birthday party. It had definitely not been on the same level.

"Peter in Wonderland," Harry murmured in Peter's ear, smirking. Just as soon as he was through speaking, he was pulling some blonde to her feet and into his arms for a passionate kiss that Peter thought was only possible between the most intimate of lovers.  He was soon shoving the girl away again, tugging Peter along with him.

"D-Did you... Did you know her?" Peter asked, shock clear in his wide eyes and open mouth.   
  
Harry shook his head, wiping his lips with the back of one hand. " _No,_ and I don't plan on it. She tasted like imported sophistication and domestic cigarettes." Whatever  _that_ meant, Peter wasn't sure. He didn't have much time to think on it, however, because Harry was pulling him off into a bathroom.

The sink was full of ice, but not full of the alcohol that Harry desired. "Flash! Where's the liquor?" Harry glanced over at Peter for the briefest of moments. "Be right back."  
  
Peter was soon left alone.  He sat down on the edge of a bathtub in the bathrrom, not quite sure of what else to do. It wasn't as if he knew anyone at the party besides Harry. 

He was only pulled from his thoughts by a mumbled, "You're...  _pinching..."_

The sudden voice startled Peter, and he jumped with a soft gasp. He had been stepping on a cord that was connected to a gas canister. Oops.   
  
"Whoa--! Sorry, um. Are you okay?" 

The other man gave a discontented sigh before replying, "Motor hyperactivity."

"What, um, _is_ that?" Peter asked, nodding to the canister before motioning to the mask connected to it on the man's face.

"Nitrous oxide." As the man speaks, he produces a joint from his jacket pocket and turned off the gas. "Wanna hit?" he asked.

Peter immediately shook his head, preserving his status as the innocent little freshman. "Oh, n-no, thank you. I don't do the, uh, the cannabis." 

The man rose an eyebrow. "Show me the man both sober and happy and I'll show you the wrinkled anus of a lying asshole."

Before Peter could attempt to form a response to whatever the hell  _that_ was, Harry returned with a paper in his hand.

"Oh. Peter, Bruce. Bruce, Peter. Mine." Harry stole the joint out of the man,  _Bruce's,_ hand. 

Bruce turned his gas back on, eyes sliding shut. Harry merely chuckled and led Peter back out of the room.

"Is--Is he a criminal?" Peter asked once they were far enough away without having to risk being heard by the man.

"No. He  _wishes_ he were a criminal. The Banner family is richer than god."

"...he  _looks_ like a criminal." Peter mumbled, glancing around at the party.   
  
"He goes to Harvard, Pete. Gonna be a great artist. His current medium is himself."

Peter glanced down at the paper in Harry's hand. "What's that?"

"Oh. It's for school. C'mon, want you to meet our host." 

A man stood in the center of the room with the full and undivided attention of everyone present. His finger circled the rim of a wine glass. 

"What there is, darlings and demoiselles, is a circle. Life is round. Patterns, routines... A wheel of self-abuse." he seemed to be an Almost-Harry. He had a demanding presence, but not one that held attention and locked it. It didn't do much for Peter.

"He sounds like you," Peter whispered to Harry, taking his eyes off of the man in the middle of the room. 

"That's because it was me, first." Harry replied in a mildly hushed tone. The man's eyes suddenly locked down on the pair of talking students.

"Until the disruption we all long for comes along... and the circle is  _broken."_

"Called him  _guardian angel_ once, but he said I was too much work." Harry murmured, focusing some of the attention that had been on the man now on Peter. 

Suddenly, the man was coming towards Peter. Fuck.

"Take, for example, this  _unbloomed stalwart."_ Peter was suddenly pulled into the center of the room.  _Fuck._ "And,  _who_ are you?"

"Peter."

Bruce entered the room, arms folded over his chest. " _Wade,_ play nice." There was now a name to the face.

"Peter, who comes  _uninvited_ to my party," Wade went on, pacing around Peter.

"Actually, I invited him," Harry drawled, looking a little less than amused.

Wade didn't seem to notice anyone's words. "None of us noticed him. Of course. Why would we?" Peter wasn't the sort of person that would draw the attention of many at the party. He screamed  _innocent_ to just about everyone, especially seeing as he had been hanging off of Harry Osborn. They couldn't play with Harry's toy, so why bother looking? 

Wade leaned in just slightly to study Peter a little closer. "So the pattern of our evening, our lives, _holds_. But under the right circumstances, even _he_ might change the world."

Peter looks to Harry for some sort of guidance. What the hell was he to do at that point? He was met with a gaze that screamed of inspiration.

 

 

The party had taken Peter, Harry, Bruce, and Wade to a jazz club somewhere. Peter didn't know much about where he was going. Harry was off doing something, leaving Peter unprotected and unspoken for.

" _So._ You met Harry at the lunch line and now he's the only thing you can see." Wade drawled, rolling his eyes. 

"Why don't you like me?" Peter asked, glancing anywhere but at Wade.

Because he was in the same damn spot," Bruce chimed in, eyes dazed and disoriented. 

Harry soon returned with a drink.   
"Some guy at the bar called me  _boy,_ so I stole his drink."

Peter glanced over his shoulder to see  _the_ Phil Coulson searching for his drink.   
  
  
"Harry! That's  _Phil Coulson!"_

Harry didn't seem impressed. "Who's Phil Coulson?"

"Best selling poet in the country."

Bruce began to recite, " _A girl who is bespectacled. She may not get her nectacled. But safety pins and bassinets--_ "

" _Await the girl who fassinets,"_ Wade finished. 

Harry bit back a huff of laughter. " _That's_ what he's selling? I'll kill him."

Bruce suddenly produced a switchblade from his pocket. "Aim for the throat." 

Harry leaned in suddenly, eyes shining. Peter was captivated.

"No, no, I'm not gonna kill him. We'll do worse. We'll make sure nobody ever remembers him." He turned to Peter. "D'you know how many men it took to start the Renaissance?"

"Two," Peter replied.

" _And_ the Romantics,"  

"More than I think this theory can accommodate," Wade chimed in.

Harry's excitement was quickly growing. "We're sending so many guys out to fight the Fascists off in Europe, but they're here! It's meter and rhyme---"

"And Professor Fury," Peter added.

" _Yes!_ They're all... they're all  _guards_ in this prison. Why don't we make the prisoners come and play? We could come up with new words, new rhymes!"

Peter nodded along eagerly. Harry's energy and passion was absolutely infectious.  
   
"We'll need a name, then." Harry clapped his hands together.

"How about the  _New Vision?"_ Peter asked, head tilted slightly to the side.

Despite Peter's disbelief in it's possibility, Harry's eyes seemed to shine even more. "Parks, you're in!"

Before Peter had enough time to enjoy being  _in,_ a policeman was escorting two men out of the bathroom. Oh.

Wade was the only one who caught the look of fear on Peter's face.  _Interesting._

 

 


	5. i love complicated

Fast forward to the early morning hours of the next day. Bruce and Wade had gone to their own homes at some point in the previous hours, leaving Peter and Harry all alone. Of course, that was far from being a problem for either boy. Harry loved having Peter's undivided attention, and Peter loved giving his attention in such a way. Harry managed to get Peter drunk, as had been his secretly established mission upon hearing that Peter  _didn't drink._

The aforementioned morning hours brought Peter and Harry 's drunkenly stumbling through the streets. It was such a carefree time, with Peter leaning against Harry's shoulder and Harry with his arm draped around Peter.

"In the dawn," Harry began to recite, stance wavering, "Armed with a burning patience, we shall enter the splendid city!"

When they stumbled to the ground, they stayed where they were. Where else would they need to be?

_Oh, right. Peter should have been back home with his mother ages ago._

The realization hit Peter so suddenly that it knocked the drunkeness right back into sobriety It was a change that Harry, still drunk, did not much care for.

" _Shit---"_

 _"_ Overwritten, I know. It's Rimbaud, though, so I think it's allowed."

Peter stood quickly, nearly knocking Harry over in the process. "This is  _bad,_ this is very bad. My mother---"

Harry sobered up slightly at the sight of his companion in such a state of distress. It was unsettling to his drunk, happy self, which made the drunken Harry retreat in disgust. Real world problems were too...  _problematic._

"What, Pete?" Harry asked, slowly gathering himself enough to stand. 

"She's going to be  _furious,"_ Peter began pacing. What had he done? It wasn't as if he was the simple teen that had been late for curfew; this was a matter of much larger importance.

"Then, don't go." Harry suggested, shoulders shrugging lazily. 

It was an easy enough suggestion to make when not in his own shoes, Peter figured. Shaking fingers raked through suddenly uncombed hair as eyes framed by glasses stared at a crack on a wall some ways in the distance. "You don't understand, Harry. I have to. It's---it's complicated."

That seemed to be the only information that Harry needed to invest his full interest. "Perfect. I  _love_ complicated."

Which, Peter thought, was exactly what you would say when your mother wasn't in such a state.

 

 

By the time Peter and Harry made it to Peter's old home, his mother was already halfway out the door. A suitcase sat by her side as a doctor conversed with Richard Parker. What the  _hell?_

"Greystone will be quick to alert you if anything changes with her condition." The doctor murmured, glancing up for just the briefest of moments when the door opened for the two boys. Peter nearly had a heart attack.  _No._ This was what he had worked so hard for so long to prevent. His mother had been to a crazy hospital once, and she had hated it with all of the passion one could muster. Peter had vowed to make sure that she would never have to go back if she didn't want to, and what did he get? The one night he messed up just seemed to be the one night that mattered. Peter could only imagine what had taken place to make his father call a hospital to take her away. Didn't the man have a heart? Didn't he know what he was  _doing?_

 _"_ Dad? W-What's going on?" Peter asked, as if he didn't already know the answer. Perhaps it woldn't be what it looked like. Perhaps it was something less.

"Your mother needs her rest." Rest could be achieved at  _home._ This was more than rest, and how  _dare_ he ut it in such understated terms? This was not rest.

Peter took the time to get a proper look at his mother. She was still in a bathrobe, and she appeared to be sedated by an array of drugs.  _What had happened?_ This was, of course, entirely his fault. If he had just been there to calm her down like he promised, she wouldn't be going back. 

"You can't do this to her!" Peter's barely keeping his voice under a yell. This wasn't--- _no!_

"Where were you?" his mother asks. Her voice sounds distant. 

"I was out with a friend. Mom, I'm so sorry---"

"I called you!" And, she was right. She had called, and Peter had promised that he would only ever be a phone call away. Another broken vow.

"It's time to go, Mrs. Parker," A nurse was leading his mother out the door before Peter could say another word.   
  
" _This is your fault,"_ she muttered to her son before she was gone.

 

After a scolding from his father, which Peter hardly thought was required, Peter found himself wandering out onto the porch. It was only when he saw Harry's form slumped over on itself did he remember that he had brought the boy along with him. 

A lit cigarette was loosely held between Harry's fingers, and Peter only realized as he sat down next to the blonde that the boy had been crying. 

"Complicated enough?" Peter asked, staring off into space. God, wasn't it complicated?

"At least you have her still. My dad left when I was a kid. Four years old." Harry mumbled, looking deadly serious for the first time in as long as Peter could remember. Harry laid himself down. Peter took his cigarette and laid right down next to him. Nicotine was needed.

"To be reborn, we have to die first." Peter quoted. It was Yeats. "I've been thinking about that a lot."

Peter handed the cigarette back over, and Harry seemed to be in slightly raised spirits. The New Vision always seemed to get Harry's interest sparked. 

"What do you suggest?"

 

 


End file.
